


Ritual (12): Not Without You

by mystery_sock (terebi_me)



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Abilities on Full Display, Ability Sharing, Action & Romance, American Politics, Banter, Beards (Facial Hair), Blood and Injury, Brother Feels, Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, Exploding, Family Drama, Fix-It of Sorts, Flying, Heroes: Volume 2, M/M, Nathan's POV, Novelization, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, POV Alternating, POV Male Character, Peter's POV, Resurrection, Sibling Incest, Superheroes, Superpower Sex, True Love, True Love's Kiss, Writing the Show Along With the Show, all that matters is love, mention of Linderman, mention of Nuclear Ted, mention of Sylar - Freeform, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 03:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20828405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terebi_me/pseuds/mystery_sock
Summary: In the world of "Ritual", how to stop - or not stop, as the case may be - an exploding man... and what happens next. [Hint: it's making love.] [But that's not all.] Takes place "within" the events of the episode "Four Months Ago..."





	Ritual (12): Not Without You

**Author's Note:**

> [original posting note] I wrote this story in June 2007, a full five months before episode 2.08 "Four Months Ago" aired - it's a little strange how close my version of things, and Tim Kring's version of things, ended up. I can't claim he stole MY idea because I'm sure he wrote that script in May or so! ^_^ This [was] pure speculation - I [was] spoiler-free and I intend to remain that way. Wikipedia is my best friend when it comes to propulsion science. Many medical details have been fudged, but then again, it's Heroes.
> 
> [current posting note] A delightful, romantic extrapolation of what HAD to happen, at least in my heart.

_ 7 NOVEMBER 2006, 11:53 P.M. _

The 'copter sat on the landing pad on the rooftop, idling, lights blinking slowly, the blades of the rotors halfway between a purr and a scream. Waiting to take newly elected Congressman Nathan Petrelli and his devoted mother, Angela Petrelli, to safety.

It was all so surreal. Just getting away with it like this.

"I'm proud of you, Nathan," said Angela, her lips held close to Nathan's ear so that he could hear her. "I know this wasn't easy for you to do."

Oh, but it _ was _ easy.

Nathan turned to face her, smiling, and kissed her cheek. "I love you, Ma," he said.

Then he turned away.

He walked with smooth, determined strides toward the edge of the roof, then, holding his arms close to his torso and pointing his feet, he flew up and away into the frigid night sky.

His mother's anguished cry of "No!" twisted into a Dopplerized groan, wisping away into nothing but the muffled sound of wind in Nathan's ears.

Nathan's smile grew. _ Poor Mother, _ he thought. _ Everyone is jumping off buildings to get away from her tonight. _

_ She hasn't left us much choice. _

He had never felt so self-assured, so graceful, moving through the air in a ballet of pure velocity. Escape had never been so beautiful, so delicious. Maybe it was that "rapture" he'd heard about with martyred saints; the feeling of rightness, joy even, rushing toward the destiny that he himself had chosen. If it were destruction, so be it—so much the better.

_ I know what needs to be done, and that's what I'm going to do. _

* * *

"I love you, Nathan."

"I love you, too. Are you ready?"

_ Let's get out of here. _

Embrace and zip.

One second from the ground, exponentially increasing velocity, curving up toward the clouds.

Peter's slight form quivered with tension and fear in Nathan's arms. Instinctively—for this ability was his, too—Peter swallowed hard to regulate the pressure inside his head as they shot up, leaving the rooftops behind in less time than it takes to blink. From where they were (_ what _ they were), there was no sound but the galloping of their heartbeats, but Nathan could see the nearly-leafless treetops flatten out from the shock wave, the slight rippling, shimmering visual signature of the "sonic boom," the softly spreading, silvery vapor ring punched into the air by his sudden burst of speed.

Mach 2 or 3, maybe. Good. As good as he'd ever done in an F-18, when Nathan had mistakenly thought his urge to fly had something to do with machines. He could feel his defiance of the speed of sound, though he could only guess his speed by the atmospheric effects. He physically knew it in the same way he knew the difference between walking and running. It was fun. Maybe he could hit 25.4, and break out of the gravity well, take Peter into space. That was the goal... Nathan didn't know if he could survive it, or even if Peter could survive it. So much the better... What could they do without each other?

Five seconds from the ground—eighteen hundred meters or so. Not enough. Keep flying up. He felt ice crystals form in his hair, blinked them away from his eyelashes.

Peter's body became rigid in his arms, trembling, immensely hot, like Nathan carried a live coal in his arms. Nathan fought against the instinct to drop Peter, grimacing, the heat punching through the alpaca wool of his Italian-tailored suit. The fact that Nathan had survived this far was as much of a miracle, the same miracle, that protected him at speeds like this, but his protective ability—whatever the hell it was—wasn't completely protecting him against Peter.

Ten seconds. Peter seized suddenly, one quick jerking shudder, his eyes rolling back for a moment. "I can't—!" he moaned.

"It's okay—I got you," Nathan said, gripping Peter tighter. Any second now. It didn't matter; only rising higher and higher. "Don't be afraid."

His brother's body shone like a lantern wrapped in burning, blackening cloth. Peter's eyes glowed brighter still, like bewitched gold coins in his exhausted face, the bones of his skull dark shadows under the illuminated skin. "You have to get away," he said, his voice barely a whisper, heard more through the vibration of his chest against Nathan's. "You don't have much time. Get away—as far as you can go!"

"I won't let you go." Nathan hissed as he felt his arms and chest blister. At least the ice wasn't forming on his eyelashes anymore. "I can't. Not yet."

Thirty seconds from the ground. Almost to the stratosphere, just below commercial airline space, at an elevation of maybe twenty-five thousand feet, as high as Nathan had ever dared to go. Getting cold up here, but not cold enough to make up for the burning full-spectrum radiation coming from Peter. Nathan's expensive suit hung off in blackened tatters, and he couldn't help crying out as flying strips of shirt-cloth took chunks of skin with them.

"You don't have to do this!" Peter insisted. "Let me go. You don't have to die."

"It's not safe on the ground yet. God help the airplanes." Dark up here, too. Not much to breathe. Nathan could barely see Peter any more—wasn't he just shining like a magnesium flare a second ago?... His grip on Peter was slippery. "We're still... in the troposphere... we should... try to break the..." His own lips were frozen shut. They spoke mind-to-mind.

Was that Peter... smiling? Smiling, through this? His grotesquely beautiful mask of living light seemed to grow dimmer, and Nathan realized that, instead of Peter cooling down, it was his own vision going dark. Blacking out. Not enough air, his radiation-scraped lungs hardly working anyway. Peter had to know that it was already too late.

Somehow, Nathan could still hear Peter's voice, begging, "Please—for me—if you love me, let me go—_ now _!"

"Love _ me _?" Nathan gasped desperately, already losing his grip. Peter slid out of his arms, but still Nathan held on, gripping Peter's hands for one last second. For a moment, they froze together with blood, then were torn apart by the winds.

"Forever! Go—!"

30,000 feet, give or take.

Just gone, slung away, spinning—but upward.

Nathan shot past Peter, gaining maybe a mile in a few seconds, the fastest that he'd ever flown, fighting to ignore the violent nausea in his belly and the agony of fresh wounds caused by burning and freezing both. He dropped a few hundred feet into lower atmosphere, gasping for breath, willing his vision to clear.

That rising dot of light—Peter! Flying too, maybe, if Nathan's ravaged eyes didn't deceive him?

No, not flying—emanating. Growing. Pulsing. Igniting.

Nathan remembered, from Navy training, to curl up and tuck to protect his joints, hold his breath and shut his eyes. There was barely enough air up here to get squeezed into a boom, and from this distance, the blast wave merely felt like a light breeze against his face, but could see the brightness of the explosion from behind closed eyelids.

He slowly counted to five, praying for peace in Peter's soul, praying that there was Heaven, that he'd see Peter in the next world, loving him, loving him, loving him.

_ At least I won't have to live without you. Peter. My reason for everything.  
_

He struggled to open his eyes, and saw that a tiny dark figure fell, in black silhouette, against the red-fading spherical glow. Not drifting—free-falling.

Without even pausing to think, Nathan shot back through the vicious heat of the blast wave, skin and eyes burning, forcing himself to keep his eyes open so that he could make a decent triangulation. It was so hard to do, this far up, no sight marks, with the clouds dissolved below them, revealing the patchwork of the city and the sinuous snakes of the rivers, getting larger and more detailed all the time, and Nathan feeling every system in his body failing one by one. But somehow—from the most essential part of him—he could still fly.

"Peter!" Nathan shouted, the wind snatching the sound out of his throat. The figure was still hundreds of meters away, but visible now, a limp, flailing cinder hurtling toward the ground. "Peter!"

He hadn't expected to have to do this. He thought he'd be dead by now. But there was no way he'd let Peter hit the ground if there was anything he could do to prevent it. But the earth loomed closer all the time, and the wind tore out Nathan's frozen eyelashes and turned his streaming tears into rivulets of ice.

_ “Most likely to…”! I can do this. Peter needs me. _

Nathan glanced at a nearby tail of low cloud, then at the green dash of Central Park in the center of Manhattan Island, then back toward the falling body, whose descent speed he had matched. Narrowing his eyes, he made the calculations that had escaped him earlier—doubling his speed downward, angling his feet toward Central Park, and propelling himself sharply straight forward.

Peter's body thudded into Nathan's arms like a sack of bricks, forcing Nathan to fly upward just to keep his arms from being torn from their sockets.

But Nathan had caught him.

Nathan couldn't spare the time to closely examine his brother. Peter looked, felt, and smelled dead; every inch of his naked body was blackened and charred like he'd been in a forest fire, covered in nasty lacerations where his shoelaces and belt and buttons had cut him as they fell away. Parts of Peter were missing; Nathan didn't want to know exactly what. He shook his head and focused his eyes and attention on the North Star, flying toward it as fast as he was able.

It wasn't particularly fast by his standards—no breaking the sound barrier, this time. It was fast enough to keep things cold and breathless, though, fast enough so that Nathan could actually escape the smell of the dead weight that he held, the heavy bundle of freeze-burned meat and sticky bones that had once been his brother and his beloved. Nathan knew he wasn't in his right mind, knew it was too late to save either of them.

All he cared about now was bringing Peter home.

Suddenly he felt disoriented, and almost dropped Peter. He lost the North Star for a moment, then, as he shook his head to try to clear his spinning mind, vomited over his shoulder. Shuddering, he forced himself to look at the sky until he found his direction, and kept going. He found himself chuckling over the fact that he had never been so annoyed that he lived so far outside the city before.

Somehow, after an eternity of throwing up blood, sobbing for breath, struggling to cut through the wind, he made it to his house in Hyde Park.

Nathan swooped in for a landing on the back lawn, realizing too late that he'd underestimated how fast he was still going. He skidded across the grass, tearing up sod by the roots, his feet plowing a furrow fifteen feet long, before he lost his balance and pitched forward, Peter's body lightly tumbling to the ground at last. His last thought before blacking out: _ I didn't let go, Peter. I told you I wouldn't leave you. I didn't let go. _

* * *

Peter opened his eyes to darkness.

He rolled over and coughed hard, choking out bile from his stomach and stale breath from his lungs, gripping torn grass between his fingers. He blinked hard and waited for the world to come into focus; the darkness receded somewhat, but not entirely. It was night, gently illuminated by low, dim, white solar lamps. He lay on chopped-up, frost-stiffened grass and mud, next to a long, rough ditch.

He recognized where he was after a moment. _ Nathan's backyard. _ He sat up and pushed a dislocated shoulder back into place, then some shattered ribs and a spike of femur protruding from his thigh. His body knitted everything back together; bones, muscles, skin, twisted and stretched sinews.

He was naked and banged-up and barbecued, but he was alive. Again.

At the end of the ditch, a dark, man-shaped lump lay still. Peter stood up and limped over, sank down onto his knees beside it, and gently turned the figure over.

_ Nathan. _

Worst injuries Peter had ever seen. A mess of bloody blisters and slashes, the shredded tatters of his once-white shirt soaked scarlet. Shoeless. Legs broken in several places, neck horribly out of alignment, most of his hair gone, eyebrows gone, eyelashes gone. (Those incredible eyelashes! Not anymore.) Not breathing. Peter sobbed so loud that it scared him. "_Nathan!_ Oh, God, no...!"

Tentatively Peter placed his fingers underneath Nathan's jaw, afraid to press too hard in search of a pulse.

There—just a tiny amount of warmth, just a tiny, faint flutter. But alive.

Peter, tears gushing over his cheeks, lessened the pressure of his fingers, but kept them there, unwilling to give up his contact with the last shred of Nathan's life. "Nathan," Peter whispered, swallowing hard. "It's not right. It can't be like this."

Nathan swallowed, too.

The blisters ringing his jaw began to shrink, and the blood dripping sluggishly from the corner of his mouth began flowing clear and red, then slowed, and stopped altogether. Nathan's mouth tightened, quivered, as though trying to move to speak.

Peter snatched his hand away, and Nathan exhaled once and lay still.

His heart pounding now, Peter pressed his mouth against Nathan's, glossing his lips with shed blood, parting Nathan's lips with his tongue, and blowing gently into Nathan's mouth. He would have liked to angle Nathan's head back to open his trachea, but Nathan's neck was too badly and obviously broken for Peter to dare to move it. Peter sat up, cleared Nathan's mouth with his forefinger, then applied his mouth and his breath again. Nathan didn't breathe back, and Peter drew back with a desperate sob. "Come back, please," Peter begged. "You have to come back for Claire. You have to come back for Monty and Simon and Heidi and Claire and _ me _... God, please, Nathan. We need you."

He lay his hands against Nathan's chest, and thought of Claire's smile, thought of her defiance (tried to forget her anger and disgust and misunderstanding—she was just a kid), her smile of happiness when she'd saved him (both times), when he'd saved her, when she discovered that she wasn't alone in her freakishness... when she told Peter that dying was no big deal. Maybe it wasn't.

Nathan took a deep breath, and let it out in an agonized moan. Peter took a deep breath, too, and, taking the sides of Nathan's head in his hands, moved the bones of Nathan's neck back into place. Nathan moaned again, worse this time, but his breathing became heavy and steady, and the blisters kept disappearing back into the skin.

"That's it," Peter breathed. "Stay for me. Stay for Claire. Claire needs us." He couldn't take his hands away. He could feel the regenerative energy flowing strongly through his body, smoothing out all of the damage to his own skin, but also flowing through his hands, so much like the radiant energy _ that he couldn't and wouldn't think about _ and he wondered what would happen if he touched Claire, if their bodies came together, if they embraced and tried to heal each other, if they sought joy together.

Once upon a time, Peter would have thought that such a concept was perverted, but now he let himself consider it as fully as he was able. He thought about how soft her skin was, how tiny her hands were compared to his. She was just a kid, though. But once upon a time, he'd also been just a kid, and Nathan saw what Peter really was, and let him... _ Be nice to her, patient with her, gentle and rock her before fucking her like a demented weasel... _ Peter smiled a little. "Sorry I'm thinking about your daughter like this," he murmured, watching Nathan's skin healing, watching Nathan reflexively swallowing, and his breath flow smooth and steady. "But it's just thoughts. And it's working."

Gritting his teeth, Peter straightened Nathan's legs, and Nathan moaned distantly, still unconscious. After a moment, Peter felt the bones had been reset, and were healed tight and straight, as though they'd never been broken at all.

Abruptly, Nathan started to cough hard, spewing out blood from his healing lungs. Peter quickly turned Nathan over onto his side, his breath catching as Nathan's head lolled on his neck; but the bones were fine, and when Peter pinched a section of skin on Nathan's back, Nathan's thigh muscle twitched in response. No spinal injury. Nathan moaned again, but still didn't wake up.

Peter felt suddenly drained and exhausted, like a sponge that had been wrung dry. He collapsed alongside Nathan, resting his hands against Nathan's back, trying to transmit the healing energy through him, but there was nothing left. He was too tired even for a despairing thought as he passed out.

* * *

_ Peter and Claire and Nathan sit in a circle, backs together, on a rooftop. _

_ It's snowing, but Peter doesn't feel the cold. _

_ He wants to look at his brother—at his niece—but they have to keep their backs together, all of them looking out in their own direction. But they're holding hands. Claire's tiny hands lost in Peter's and Nathan's, behind her back; Nathan flexes his fingers, laced through Peter's, holding Peter tight. _

_ Peter says, "I love you, Claire." _

_ Claire responds, "I love you, Peter." _

_ Nathan says, "I love you, Peter." _

_ Peter says, "I love you, Nathan." _

_ Nathan says, "I love you, Claire." _

_ Claire says nothing. The snow falls more thickly. Peter clenches Claire's hand, and says, "Please..." Because suddenly he feels the cold, and it's brutal and wet and unrelenting, and the worst part is that they can't even die to escape it.  
_

_ Peter turns his head and leans toward Nathan, and they kiss, only the corners of their mouths touching. And faintly, muffled by the whirling snowflakes, Claire whispers, "I can't..." _

* * *

The wet cold woke Peter. It wasn't snowing, and for a moment he was disoriented, lying damp and naked on the grass next to Nathan, with one hand trapped under Nathan's back. Everything else was the same, and the stars hadn't moved much; he'd only been out for a few minutes. The dream, or vision, or whatever, had seemed endless.

Nathan had rolled back onto his back in the few minutes, though, his eyes still closed. Peter pressed his lips against his brother's again, and this time, Nathan responded with a weak kiss. When Peter drew back, Nathan opened his eyes, the delicate lids fuzzy with the first new growth of eyelashes. His filthy, angular face was alien without lashes or brows, but the skin completely unmarked and intact.

Peter smiled. "Hi," he said. "Welcome back. You're home."

"Peter... oh God... what am I doing here?"

"You brought us back here," Peter explained. "We gotta get inside. It's cold out here."

"Yeah," said Nathan dully. "I'm at home?"

"C'mon... can you stand?"

Nathan could, just barely; his heart and lungs were fine, but it was going to take a moment longer for his brain to come back entirely. He leaned against Peter, and they walked the hundred yards from where they'd landed to the kitchen service entrance. Nathan clumsily punched in a door security code, and let them inside.

Peter said nothing until they'd reached the downstairs parlor, and settled Nathan on a long, dark velvet sofa, covering Nathan with a blanket tugged from a basket of them next to the fireplace. "Where's the staff?" Peter asked.

"They're at home," Nathan murmured. "They have the next week off. I knew I wasn't going to be coming home tonight, one way or the other. There might still be two guys at front gate security, though. I came in the back way." He smiled. "I figured they wouldn't be watching the sky. Peter—_ you saved me _."

Peter nodded tentatively. "Yeah," he said, and slid next to Nathan on the couch, pulling the blanket over them both, snuggling next to Nathan's body heat. "I'm not done saving you. You still need my help."

"How'd you do it?"

"If we touch each other, it seems like we can transmit our powers to the person we touch. I didn't even know I was doing it; I didn't know it could be done. But... if I can take Claire's hand and make her disappear because I do... I can touch you and your body regenerates. But you're not done yet." Peter spooned snugly against Nathan's back, stroking his hands over Nathan's chest and flanks and thighs, feeling the tickle of body hair growing back. "I just need to keep thinking about Claire... you should get some more sleep."

"I can't sleep. I'm alive. And I'm itching like crazy—my face! I'm covered in blood."

Peter chuckled. "We both need a shower."

"We should have one," Nathan said matter-of-factly. "You've got a change of clothes upstairs, too. But... I guess we don't really need clothes right now."

He sounded like his old self again, and Peter wiped his sudden tears of joy against the back of Nathan's neck. "We are alone," Peter agreed.

"Let's get cleaned up."

The shower stall soon looked like a cross between a coal mine and a barbershop at closing time; Peter was kept busy clearing the drain of the handfuls of hair that washed off Nathan. His previously immaculately groomed hair was now a disaster —some long and straggling strands sharing territory with a soft stubble about a centimeter long. Peter had barely lost any hair, and that was only because some got torn out when he hit the ground. He patiently washed his brother's unmarked, smooth skin (his body hair still new and whisper-fine), following his washcloth with kisses and stroking fingers, even the old scars smoother, diminished. Nathan, still dazed, let himself be ministered to. "You lucky shit; you didn't lose any hair," he said, running his fingers through Peter's wet, messy tangle.

"Sure I did," Peter murmured. "But I guess Ted... is impervious to radiation. Just his own, or all radiation, I don't know..." His body suddenly gave off heat intense enough to fill the shower stall with steam.

"Claire... hates me," Nathan broke in suddenly, distracting Peter.

Peter swallowed nervously, remembering his dream. The heat died away. "I'm sure she doesn't hate you, Nathan... she just... doesn't know you."

"She doesn't really know you, either, and she came thousands of miles on the random off chance that she could find you."

"I saved her life," Peter shrugged. "You saved her life. Maybe her opinion of you has changed."

"I didn't save her life, and neither did you," Nathan pointed out. "She can't die, right? Because otherwise, you'd be dead right now, too. So, we just—"

Peter cut him off. "Nathan, I'm trying."

"I know," Nathan said, backing down instantly, softening his voice. "I'm sorry. I'm just... kinda freaked. I was dead, wasn't I?"

Peter smiled. "No... but you would have been within, maybe, a minute. You coming back for me probably saved yourself. Did you know?"

"No," Nathan smiled back. "I just couldn't let you go."

Peter gently kissed Nathan on the mouth. "Got some hair clippers? You look like a very healthy zombie."

They spread out towels on the floor of the already tragically-filthy bathroom, and Peter buzzed Nathan's hair down to a single length, which was about an inch long at this point. Nathan's face wore a heavy coat of gray-flecked stubble, and the fuzz at his temples had plenty of gray in it, too. "I used to have this haircut back in the Navy," Nathan mused.

"It makes your eyes look really big." Peter turned away, shutting off the clippers, and then, picking up the scissors in the haircut kit, grabbed his long forelock of hair, and cut it off at mid-forehead. Frowning bitterly, he finished the haircut that Sylar had started. "We're dead," Peter said, staring at himself in the mirror, at Nathan's strange reflection behind him. "Nobody could survive that. Right? For all intents and purposes... to the world, we're dead. They don't know where we are. I wonder if anybody's even looking for us."

"They've got to be," Nathan said. "Maybe. Only Claire knows that you might be able to survive. And me... I'm sure they think I was... vaporized."

"I don't want them to find us," Peter muttered, his eyes very dark. Nathan stared too; it was like Peter had aged twenty years in just a few days. "I want to disappear. I want to stay dead. I don't want—"

"We're alone right now, Peter," Nathan broke in. "But people will be here soon... the police searching for clues, the press, sniffing out an angle. We have to make a choice. Do you want to be with me?"

Peter seemed thrown by this. "Of—of course."

"Think about it—carefully." Nathan took Peter's face in his hands and kissed him, deep and wet and passionate, and sighed with satisfaction as Peter immediately responded with open desire, pressing his body in close, possessively and hungrily grasping Nathan's buttocks with his hands. Even in this, Peter had matured in the last few months; he didn't just seem desperately horny now, he seemed ... commanding. Certain. "Do you want to be with me, not just now, but... really?"

"You barely look like yourself," Peter whispered against Nathan's ear. "We could disappear. We could literally disappear. Look." Peter angled his head toward the bathroom mirror, dripping with condensation, and showing only an empty room. Nathan drew in his breath sharply with surprise. "If we're touching..."

Nathan silenced him with another kiss, arching his hips against Peter, his arousal potentiating Peter's desire until they rocked breathlessly against each other, stiff cocks rubbing together. "Let's go to bed," Nathan whispered, "and think about it." Because he didn't really know, himself, what he was asking—only that he wanted Peter, in bed and fucking, right now.

Because they were both alive, and alone together, and maybe for the last time.

* * *

In the blue guest room, they lay together, breathlessly licking and sucking each other at once. There wasn't time for one-at-a-time, and neither was willing to compromise. Nathan jammed spit-wet fingers into Peter's ass, taking control, reducing Peter to a pile of shuddering limbs and open-mouthed moaning.

"You want it now? Are we gonna do this?" Nathan murmured, kissing the inside of Peter's thigh, rubbing Peter's damp, throbbing cock against his lips. "You want me inside you?"

Peter didn't have to reply out loud; he climbed on top of Nathan, slicking Nathan's cock with the last few drops out of a bottle of lube. It wasn't very much, but as long as it was enough to keep Nathan from getting too raw, it was enough. Nathan could fuck Peter as hard and long as he wanted, and Peter never had to worry about getting hurt ever again. Pain was so much better than feeling nothing, better than going without. Nathan held his cock at an upright angle—pushing down with his fingers against the rigid erection that wanted to stand up against his body—and Peter painstakingly maneuvered himself down onto it, wincing slightly as he felt himself penetrated.

But Peter was stronger now, and, having been snatched back from death so recently, the sensation of painful fullness was delicious. Nathan groaned, arching back against the bed; Peter could hear Nathan's heartbeat, the blood rushing through his body and stiffening his cock, heard his thoughts: _ oh fuck-fuck-fuck me, Jesus, God, this asshole... oh god, you hot little fucker, you slut, my slut, my boy, oh, fuck me hard and don't stop, don't ever stop. The two things in my life that feel more perfect than anything else—flying, and fucking him. I can't go back to her. _

"You have to," Peter said suddenly, still riding Nathan's cock, squinting urgently. 

"What?" Nathan gasped, his eyes widening. Peter gulped, and reached for his own cock, jerking on it quickly and fucking harder, substituting moans for an answer. Nathan arched up again, his mouth open in an answering moan. 

_ Oh, my boys, but oh, Peter. Oh God, I can't leave this. Oh, fuck, I'm coming already? I'm coming... _

Peter climbed off rapidly, and jerked Nathan's cock toward his mouth, catching the thick jets of semen on his cheek and outstretched tongue. Nathan cried out in total ecstasy, fighting against the reflex to close his eyes with his orgasm. "Oh, Pete... fuck..." Nathan sighed, half-laughing, watching Peter spit and try to wipe off his tongue onto the back of his wrist. "You're too much."

"You taste even worse than usual," Peter replied, laughing too, grinning happily. "Was that hot? Am I a good little slut?"

Nathan blinked. "Are... you reading my mind?" 

"It was just a stray thought..."

"You can read my mind? Fuck, Peter." Now Nathan's voice was hard, and he sat up, frowning. 

"Look, I didn't ask for it. I didn't do it on purpose. I just don't have as good control... I'm still working on it..." He lapsed into miserable silence. 

Nathan took Peter into his arms and kissed the back of his neck. "It's okay," Nathan soothed, hugging Peter, sliding one hand down and taking Peter's cock into his hand, gently pumping it in his fist. "It's okay. I know how ... you're trying. I know. I love you. That doesn't change anything. I'm just surprised, okay?"

"I just want to control it. It's hard; I don't have any control over it now."

"Ssh, ssh," Nathan whispered, increasing the tempo of his fingers on Peter. "You're here right now... stay here. Stay with me. I love you; I believe in you. You have to believe in you, too."

"I'm trying—" Peter began again, but trailed off; Nathan took Peter's cock into his mouth and began running his tongue over it. Peter breathed deeply, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the present, on the feeling of Nathan's tongue, lips, teeth, palate, hands, all working together gently but insistently on him. He thought of flying with Nathan, Nathan embracing him, scolding him, looking at him like he was crazy. He tried to remember what Nathan looked like with the sharp-drawn buzz cut he now had, but couldn't put it together with the gray temples, or with Nathan's beard, gently tickling the insides of his thighs. It felt good; better than Peter would have thought. Nathan's mouth was, of course, expert, intense, slick, and hot.

Nathan slid fingers back into Peter's ass, and Peter bucked his cock against the back of Nathan's mouth, giving a short, almost startled cry. Peter hadn't actually ejaculated yet, and he took his cock back, jerking off, spilling thick streams down over his hand and thighs. Of course, Nathan extended his tongue for a taste, but drew back again almost immediately. "God," Nathan said, sounding disappointed.

"I _ was _ dead," Peter pointed out. "I don't think it helps."

"Huh... yeah. It doesn't. You're also just getting older..."

Solemnly now, they went back to the bathroom and cleaned up again (Nathan worriedly toying with the gray strands in his beard; Peter gave the beard less than a day's continued existence). Peter found his spare clothes and got dressed, while Nathan got dressed himself. They met again in the kitchen, where they ate cans of peaches, pears, and mandarin oranges, drinking the syrup out of the cans like war refugees. 

"God, I feel like a million bucks," Nathan said after they'd finished. "Do you always feel better after you—"

"No," Peter said. "Every time, I feel like I've... lost something. To the other side, or something. I don't think it's like that for Claire, don't worry. Then again, I don't know. Maybe that's why she's so chill."

"Chill? _ Her _?" Nathan asked dubiously. "I'd hate to see who you think is high-strung. She jumped out a window... on her way to... not shoot you, I guess."

"She jumped out a window?" Peter echoed, grinning. "She's such a total bad-ass."

Nathan looked pensive. "I don't know, Pete," he said. "I have to try."

"So you're going back," Peter said, voice flat, the expression that he hoped was blank instead cold and hurt.

"Yes, Peter," Nathan said slowly. "This whole Congress thing... I wasn't just manipulated into it. I really want it. I think I'd be good. I think I will be good. I think it's important. The world still needs me. It needs you. That's why I want you to stay with me."

"So I'll be the best full-service bodyguard in the world?" Peter said dubiously. Nathan wondered if Peter had any idea how much he looked and sounded just like Claire when he did that. "Are you gonna leave her?"

"Who?—Oh." Nathan sighed. "Heidi. I don't know. I do love her. I do. But... how can I keep lying to her? She doesn't need me. She doesn't. She can walk." At Peter's raised eyebrow, Nathan elaborated, "Linderman. His final wedding present."

"Linderman?" 

"Yes," said Nathan slowly, realizing suddenly how much Peter still didn't know about the last few days. "He can... heal people. And more. By touch."

"Oh, shit," Peter said quietly. "So... it might not have been Claire's ability I was using... on you."

"Maybe... who cares, Peter. The end result is the same."

"Sounds just like you," Peter retorted. "You're all better, all right."

"Peter, don't be a dick. I'm asking you. Will you stay with me? Please? I need you. I absolutely need you. Claire needs you. The boys're gonna need you. Please... don't let... fear drive you away."

"I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid of what I'll do."

"We'll deal with that when it happens. Peter, please. God, I love you so much. _ I gave up my life for you. _ Literally. I died for you. Or... almost, whatever. Do you understand? Can't you just... trust yourself... just enough?" Nathan sounded near tears, his eyes pleading and enormous. "Please? It's going to be okay. Linderman is dead. Sylar is dead. I'm going to make sure that ... we're safe, that people like us are safe."

Peter stared back, challenging, "How're you gonna do that, Nathan?" 

Nathan shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "You can help me with that. You're good at... keeping me from... you help me remember people, not just principles. Not just dogma. You can protect me—protect my soul." He rubbed Peter's shoulder.

Peter's eyes softened, and he broke into a crooked smile. "You don't have a soul, Nathan," he said, laughing a little. "You sold it to rock'n'roll, remember?"

Nathan had never even jokingly said that, but he nodded eagerly. "Oh, right, yeah. Well, we'll go get me a new one. We can lease it back from rock'n'roll. How's that sound?"

"Rock'n'roll charges outrageous interest rates."

"Love me?" Nathan whispered, stroking Peter's hair, not enough of it left to tuck.

"Forever," Peter replied, not looking as happy as Nathan thought he ought to, but... it didn't matter so much anymore; his slightly annoyed expression just made Nathan want to kiss him more.


End file.
